


Glancing

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hair Kink, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-21 09:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11941740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Kyouichi's not really thinking about his agreement; he’s thinking about the way Touga’s fingers feel against the weight of his hair, about the way the other’s touch is prickling heat from the knob at the back of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine, where it spills and knots into a twist of something a little wanting, a little uncertain, and all warm enough to glow underneath Kyouichi’s already sweat-warmed skin." Touga practices sincerity, and Kyouichi finds himself conquered.





	Glancing

“You’ve gotten better.”

Kyouichi snorts in the back of his throat as he sets his shinai back where it belongs and lifts his arms up over his head to stretch out some measure of the tension in his shoulders. “I had better be,” he tells Touga as he arches into the strain at the small of his back and feels the muscles aching pleasantly with the effort. “I’ve been practicing for years, now.”

“It’s paid off.” Touga lifts his hand to push through the loose fall of his hair around his shoulders; it’s an impractical affectation of his to leave it hanging like a curtain around his face while they’re sparring, but Kyouichi isn’t going to give voice to that judgment now or ever. He ducks his head instead, hiding his expression in shadow while he lifts a hand to tug at the tie holding the length of his own hair up and off the back of his neck. “You’re better than I am.”

“Not for long,” Kyouichi says without lifting his head. The words fall without the bitterness they might have had before, when every interaction was a battle, when every conversation was a duel; now they’re just flat with truth, with easy resignation to the facts of the world Kyouichi has come to terms with. “The more you practice the faster you catch up to me.”

Touga’s laugh is warm and purring against the dark corners of the dojo. “Only because you’re willing to practice with me in the first place.”

Kyouichi lifts his head to look up through his hair at Touga, his heart skipping over the echo of those words from a time so far gone it feels like someone else’s memory, like the boy it belonged to is utterly distinct from the man he has since become. But Touga isn’t smirking, isn’t dipping his lashes into the weight of implication; he’s just watching Kyouichi, his lips curving on sincerity instead of mockery, his head tipped very slightly to the side with a warmth in his expression Kyouichi can feel prickle down the length of his spine in spite of himself. He ducks his head again and drops to a knee against the floor so he can press his thumbs in against a knot at the back of his calf, so he can give himself the idle excuse of working through the tension instead of meeting Touga’s gaze.

“Yeah, well,” he says, and tips his head forward so his hair falls against the back of his neck, the sweat-tangled strands curling in against each other even tied back into the ponytail he always adopts for these sparring matches. “It’s always better for training to have a partner to practice on.”

Touga hums another laugh. “It is,” he agrees, the words dropping down into that warmth that Kyouichi still, even now, isn’t used to hearing in the reality of his existence, and he takes a step forward to pad across the smooth floor of the dojo. Kyouichi keeps his hands working in against his calf, keeps his head ducked down with claimed attention to what he’s doing, but he can see Touga drawing closer, can watch the bones and tendons in the other’s feet work with unconscious elegance as he crosses the gap between them. “We can improve each other.” His fingers touch Kyouichi’s hair, his touch ghosting over the strands, and Kyouichi’s head tips forward as if of its own accord to let his hair spill over and against the side of his neck.

Kyouichi closes his mouth and swallows before he can trust his voice to speech. “Yeah,” he says, but he’s not really thinking about his agreement; he’s thinking about the way Touga’s fingers feel against the weight of his hair, about the way the other’s touch is prickling heat from the knob at the back of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine, where it spills and knots into a twist of something a little wanting, a little uncertain, and all warm enough to glow underneath Kyouichi’s already sweat-warmed skin. Touga’s fingers slide, Kyouichi’s hair spills off his neck and over his shoulder, and Kyouichi ducks his head farther forward to bare the back of his neck for the deliberate upward motion of Touga’s fingers. The contact trails over Kyouichi’s skin, catching damp against Touga’s touch before fingers catch and drift into the soft short of the hair at the very back of Kyouichi’s neck, the few curls too short and too fine to be pinned up into the weight of the ponytail along with everything else. Kyouichi’s breath rushes out of him, his hand drops from his calf to brace himself against the floor of the dojo beneath him; but Touga doesn’t pull his touch away, just lets his fingertips slide over the taut-pulled line of Kyouichi’s hair and up to slide into and through the heavy fall of his ponytail over his shoulder. Kyouichi can feel the motion of Touga’s fingers against his scalp, can feel the gentle tug of the motion as Touga strokes down, as he catches his fingers around a few separate waves and draws them up and free of the rest.

Touga’s exhale is very loud in the quiet of the dojo, even over the thud of Kyouichi’s speeding heart. “You have beautiful hair,” he says, sounding a little bit awed, like he’s talking to himself more than for an audience. His thumb slides, his touch tugs gently; Kyouichi can feel his skin going hot in immediate answer. “I never noticed before.”

Kyouichi lifts his head. There’s no thought to the movement; it’s immediate, instinctive, some part of him answering the sound of those words on Touga’s voice, some curiosity demanding to see the expression that goes along with that tone. His hair slides free of Touga’s lingering hold, the strands tumbling back over his shoulder as he moves; but Touga’s gaze follows it, his whole focus still caught as if it’s been tangled into the curls of Kyouichi’s hair in spite of himself. Kyouichi sees the soft at the corners of Touga’s eyes, and the part of his lips, the all-in surprise at seeing something he had never truly noticed before; and then Touga blinks, and looks over, and their eyes meet before Kyouichi can even wonder if he would duck away if he had the chance at it.

There’s a breath of silence as they look at each other. Kyouichi can feel his lashes shift when he blinks, can feel the huff of adrenaline parting his lips; his face is warm, he can feel himself flushing and he can’t look away. But Touga...Touga’s gaze is still soft, almost unfocused, like he’s not really seeing Kyouichi looking at him as much as he is seeing the image the other makes, as if Kyouichi might be a work of art awaiting his appreciation rather than another person with his heartbeat thudding to double-time in his throat. His upraised hand drifts down through the air, falling from where he was holding Kyouichi’s hair to touch against the curls winding over the other’s forehead, to brace his fingertips at the sweat-heat of the other’s skin, and Kyouichi’s heart is fluttering and he can’t make himself look away. His reaction is too strong, he knows, when he has the print of Touga’s fingers on him in memories from the last year, when he knows the taste of the other’s mouth from a multitude of interludes rushed and savoring both; but this is different, this is something new, Touga has never touched Kyouichi like this before and Kyouichi can feel himself coming undone, can feel his shell cracking with a promise of some new life he’s not sure he’s ready for, not yet.

“Saionji,” Touga says, even those few sounds drawn low and warm in his throat; and he ducks forward, bending at the same time he moves to kneel in front of Kyouichi, to join the other where he is at the floor. His hand comes out, reaching to brace himself as he leans in, but Kyouichi isn’t thinking about that; he’s closing his eyes, he’s lifting his chin, he’s making an offering of his mouth that doesn’t need the guidance of Touga’s fingers at his jaw to steer him. Touga’s breath rushes over his mouth, Touga’s lips touch the very corner of his own; and for a long moment they stay like that, Touga’s mouth pinning heat against the angle of Kyouichi’s and Kyouichi with his whole existence thrumming like it’s trying to resonate in time with the friction of Touga’s breathing against his mouth.

The sound of the door banging open is startling enough that Kyouichi and Touga both jump and flinch away with self-conscious haste. Kyouichi turns his head at once, his heart racing with guilty panic over who it is that has just come in, but for a moment it’s impossible to identify the silhouette in the doorway of the dojo, framed as they are by the light outside and the shadows within.

“Tea is ready,” a sharp voice decrees, and Kyouichi knows that tone, now, as Nanami come to interrupt the end of their sparring as she often does. Her tone is harsh, the words skidding up high and breathless in her throat like she wants to shout, like she’s fighting back some sharp-edged emotion, but Kyouichi can’t see her face for the light behind her, can’t pick out the details of her expression for the pain of the illumination on his dark-adjusted eyes.

“Of course,” Touga says, his voice steady, smooth as water, flowing out to ease the edge of Nanami’s tone and the pain in Kyouichi’s sun-blinded eyes at one and the same time. “We’re just finishing.” There’s a pause, a moment while Nanami lingers in the doorway of the dojo; and then Touga: “We’ll be right there,” with complete kindness on the words that are nonetheless absolutely and unmistakably a dismissal. Nanami huffs an exhale, the sound pitched loud and carrying; but then she turns, obedience to her brother winning out over her frustration, and as Kyouichi blinks his vision back into focus he can just see her flouncing back towards the main house, her steps heavy enough that they send up puffs of dust with every footfall.

“She’s in a bad mood,” Kyouichi observes.

“Yes,” Touga agrees. His fingers shift and slide in and against Kyouichi’s hand, his touch pressing close against the other in the casual intimacy Nanami’s abrupt entrance left so clear for her to consider. Touga heaves a sigh; Kyouichi can’t tell if it’s sincere or feigning, can’t spare the attention to determine either way as Touga’s thumb trails over the bone of his wrist and around to clasp very gently against his arm. “Unfortunate.”

Kyouichi looks up through his hair at Touga. Touga is looking towards the house where Nanami is disappearing, his lips tight on a smile that has some measure of amusement on it in spite of his stated opinion; but his hand is still gentle around Kyouichi’s, his fingers tightening to hold them together. Kyouichi stares for a moment, looking at the way the sunlight illuminates the lines of Touga’s face, the upturned angle of his jaw and the crimson of his hair and the curl of his eyelashes; and then Touga looks sideways to meet his attention, and his smile goes soft at once, the edge of laughter on it melting away into something Kyouichi still can’t quite frame as reality in his head.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Touga says. “Will you be coming in to join us?”

Kyouichi stares up at him. “Do you want me to?”

Touga’s lashes dip, his smile softens; for a moment his expression goes slack again, his attention to his own features giving way as his focus comes into greater clarity on Kyouichi’s. He lifts his hand from Kyouichi’s cheek up to slide through the other’s hair again, to trail against the line of Kyouichi’s jaw.

“Yes,” he says, almost a whisper; and then he lets his hand fall, and rocks back on his heels. “I hope you do.” His fingers at Kyouichi’s wrist tighten, just for a heartbeat, a painless cage tensing against the other’s pulse; and then he lets his grip go, and gets to his feet in one elegant motion. Kyouichi stays where he is, on one knee against the dojo floor and looking up at Touga over him; Touga meets his gaze, his smile tugging up at the corner for a moment, and then he turns away to pad towards the door so he can follow Nanami into the house. Kyouichi watches him go, watches the way the wind catches and tugs at Touga’s hair falling around his shoulders; and then he ducks his head, and closes his eyes, and takes a slow breath with no one there to see him.

After everything, it’s strange how undone he is by Touga’s sincerity.


End file.
